


Two Times Two

by Haepherion



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Bottom Hux, Canon-Typical Violence, Drunk Sex, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Hux-centric, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mercenaries, Sniper Hux, Top Kylo Ren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 21:00:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7006687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haepherion/pseuds/Haepherion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snoke hires Hux to kidnap Ben Solo, the only son of the most powerful political figurehead in the United States. Personal interests get in the way. Things do not go according to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Times Two

            Hux breathes out slow, savoring the sweet earthen flavor of the smoke. It’s a damn good cigar, but he can see a bribe for what it is. The cigar is probably the only good thing that’s going to come out of this particular meeting.  

            Snoke sits across, eyes gleaming as he watches Hux peels the cigar away from his lips.

            Not for the first time, Hux wonders if there’s something stronger than just nicotine wrapped within the leaves of the fat Cuban cigar. His head buzzes pleasantly, dampening his nerves and making the room feel warmer than comfortable. It’s unsettling. Hux doesn’t like feeling out of control, especially in any sort of situation where Snoke is involved.

            “Well?”

            “I appreciate the offer,” Hux says, measuring his words carefully, “but unfortunately, it does not align with my interests.”

            He watches Snoke’s eyes narrow before the man’s expression resumes a placid smile. Snoke blinks carefully, as if reassessing his strategy. Hux would find it creepy if he were inclined to feel fear. As it were, he just feels annoyed.

            Hux kills people for a living. The profession of kidnapping someone and holding them for ransom is petty and rude and unnecessarily dangerous, especially if the media gets involved. News channels love a mystery.

            Snoke nods like he was expecting this response, leaning back in his throne-like chair and steepling his fingers together in that condescending way of his. Hux leans away too, resting the half-smoked cigar on a silver tray and exchanging it for a cool glass of scotch. The ice cubes clink against the glass as he raises it to his lips, sipping prudently.

            The room is bland. A standard gentleman’s club, billiards tables in the other room, men gathered around the bar murmuring in quiet voices, a high stakes poker game going on in the far corner.

            Hux has the niggling suspicion that this club is probably the front for some of Snoke’s more nefarious business deals, but he doesn’t comment on it. Hux learned early on that the best policy is always to look the other way, no matter the fact that he finds the human trafficking trade revolting.

            It’s been a few years since his last meeting with Snoke. Things haven’t changed a bit--Snoke is as weird and wrinkly as ever.

            “I know you have people better suited to the…nature…of the work you’re inquiring about. Might I suggest Phasma?” Hux says evenly, eyes never leaving Snoke’s. There’s something distinctly disturbing about the man, his beady eyes flicking about, the heavy lines on his face making him look eerily sinister. It’s only fitting, Hux imagines, that one of the most powerful mob bosses on this half of the hemisphere looks that way.

            “Phasma is talented. But for this, I require someone who is a little more detail-oriented. Someone with a little more finesse and expertise in discretion.”

            Hux raises an eyebrow.

            “For one, I’d like this subject to stay alive.”

            “Ah,” Hux smirks with understanding. Phasma has no patience for the people she kidnaps. If she finds them too annoying to deal with, she’ll kill them without batting an eye, ransom be damned.

            Hux leans over and grabs his cigar from the tray, taking another long puff.

            “And second, I think you’ll find this particular subject of interest to you.”

            Snoke finally slides the manila folder on the table over to Hux.

            And that’s the other thing Hux dislikes about the man. Most bosses are cut and dry: here’s the mission, here’s what I want, here’s what I’ll pay you. But with Snoke it’s never that easy, always something going on beneath the surface of whatever he’s asking. Everything feels like a test, and while Hux has never really been one to seek others’ approval there’s still the sensation that he’s being evaluated for _something._

            Hux opens the file.

            Standard case file, a brief letter about the intent, along with a clipping of the target’s face--

            Hux chokes on air.

            His reflexes are good enough to catch the file before it falls to the ground.

            For the first time in a long time, his heart pounds an unsteady rhythm, head buzzing with something more than just the cigar and scotch.

            That man… _the target_ …it can’t be…

            But there’s no mistaking the aquiline nose, the dark brooding eyes.

            Hux blinks rapidly, trying to process the face he’s seeing, trying to get himself back under control.

            He takes a measured breath, and then another. _Get a grip, Hux._ He flips through the rest of the documents, but they only confirm information about what he already knows about the person whose picture he saw on the first page.

            Snoke waits patiently for Hux to finish going through the file.

            Hux sets it down on the coffee table between them with steady hands, and says nothing, taking a long inhale from his cigar.

            There is silence, but Snoke doesn’t offer any explanation. He never does.

            “These cigars are quite remarkable. Fuente don Arturo’s?” Hux finally asks.

            Snoke nods. “You can take a box of them, if you’d like. I have plenty.”

            Hux nods. Of course the cigars had been a bribe.

            Phasma warned him about working with Snoke, early in their careers. She started her career young, whereas Hux had started well into his twenties, after he realized he had an affinity for this sort of work and was quite good at it. Killing people, that is.

            But if there’s anything to be said about the Snoke, it’s that he knows people. Knows humans, and how they work, and how they function, and particularly, what makes them tick.

            It’s uncomfortable to realize that Snoke knows Hux’s weaknesses, and that he’s found it and exploited it so mercilessly.

            “And you want him—the _target_ …alive,” Hux asks quietly.

            “Very much so.”

            “Why.”

            Snoke tilts his head to the side.

            “Why alive? Or why I picked you?”

            “Why him?”

            “I think you’ll find the answer to that is quite simple.”

            “With all due respect, I believe that you have enough monetary capital to last you several lifetimes. As for a display of your influence…well, I believe that it isn’t necessary. Your name is well known, and revered, if not feared,” Hux says, because it’s the truth, and because he still doesn’t know how to respond to any of this, his mind lagging a few paces behind.

            “It’s to be a political statement, to his hypocrite mother. A reminder that she preaches one thing, and practices another. That she doesn’t believe in not following the law…but that if she wants her son returned…”

            Hux takes a second to process this information. “She’ll be forced to consult sources that are not legal in order to get her son back.”

            “Very good,” Snoke says.

            “And you approached me about this.”

            “Your records are not as private as you believe, Brendol. It wasn’t difficult to find your connection to the Organa family. Nor, do I think, it is remiss of me to believe you have reason to hold a grudge against Leia Organa-Solo.”

            Hux feels his face heat in anger.

            “I do not let emotional matters, no matter how _personal_ they may seem, interfere with my work.”

            The room is deafeningly silent. Hux wonders if Snoke had all the birds in the area shot down, or muted so they couldn’t chirp.

            “Then your control over your emotions should therefore not get in the way of you completing the assignment.”

            Hux seethes. _Hook, line, sinker._ He knows full well that Snoke is baiting him.

            “How much time do I get?”

            “4 weeks.”

            Hux takes one last drag, tasting ashes on his tongue. The cigar has burned down to the filter.

            “I’ll do it."

            The corners of Snoke’s lips turn up in a semblance of a smile.

            “But you already knew I would. Didn’t you,” Hux spits.  

            Snoke leans back in his chair, pleased. “Perhaps I just know you’ve never been one to turn down a challenge, Hux." 

            Hux has nothing to say to that, so he says nothing at all.

\---

            There’s a lot of preparation that goes into killing someone. Hux absolutely hates getting his hands dirty, but he’ll do it if he has to.

            He gleans no pleasure from choking the life out of someone, or hearing them scream as he stabs them to death. Sometimes these types of kills are necessary, but bloodstains are a bitch and a half to clean, and he prefers the simple method; bullet to the head from 50 feet away, quick body disposal, no marks or traces left at the scene of the crime. Neat and organized.

            Hux sits in his apartment and takes apart his beloved SR-25 rifle, cleaning each part before putting it all back together. And then repeats the process for the other four rifles, older models but still well-cared for, before storing them back in his closet and locking it up.

            If everything goes according to plan, it’ll only be a few weeks before he’s back in his apartment, but with these types of missions, one never knows.

            Hux hasn’t travelled in a long time, but he figures now is as good as any to cash in on Phasma’s frequent flyer miles.           

            It’s been a long time since Hux has been in New York. 

\---

            The Organa family has been compared to the Kennedys ever since Leia burst onto the political scene, taking the world by storm with her sharp looks and even sharper wit. Even now, 5 years after her 8-year term as the President of the United States, she continues to make a splash in international politics.

            She’d started her career as a lawyer. A defense lawyer, more specifically, until she’d realized the hypocritical nature of it all and become a prosecutor. Ironic, since her on-off husband had been an ex-convict, but that only added to the intrigue and media attention of the Organa family. There was never a doubt that Leia Organa was an incredibly powerful and successful prosecutor.

            And had conveniently prosecuted Hux’s only parent into jail for the rest of his life, and left a young and innocent ( _and stupid)_ Hux an orphan. Never mind the fact that young Hux also had bruises that wrapped around his shoulders, or the ( _unfortunate side-effect)_ of flinching away from loud voices, too scared ( _too stupid)_ to stand up to anyone who looked at him mean, like his Pa had.

            He’d lost the only person in his world, and with it, been thrust into the foster system that was somehow worse than all the times he’d had a cigarette put out on his breakable ( _delicate, weak_ ) skin.

            Hux cranks up the music when the airplane reaches cruising level and leans his first-class business seat back, willing sleep to come and put an end to his thoughts.

\---

            “Wow, where are you from?”

            Hux is tempted to put his earbud back in but refrains. Just barely. He was raised with manners, after all.

            “England,” he grits out.

            “Oohh, that’s so cool,” she squeals, adding a huge and uncalled for dollop of whipped cream to his black coffee.

            Hux nods, snatching his over-priced coffee out of her hands before she can ask more questions, or add any more sugar to it.

            “Have a nice day!” the barista chirps.

            He doesn’t return the sentiment.

            There’s a reason he never went back to New York. He remembers now.

\---

            The apartment he rents is small but clean, nondescript with a bed, a dresser, a kitchen in one corner, and a small bathroom with a shower, toilet, and sink. The studio feels about the size of a closet, and it uncomfortably reminds Hux of college. At least this time around, he doesn’t have to share the space with anyone. 

            He checks surroundings, peeking out the window, checking the stairwells. The apartment doesn’t have any great vantage points, fortunately for him, so there isn’t as much a concern of him being spotted too often. It’s relatively quiet, too, for being so close to the city.

            Hux carefully sets up his workstation; his laptop, the file from Snoke, and his phone charger on the folding table in the corner. It’s only late afternoon by the time he’s set everything up, created the correct aliases and alibis, and reached out to Thanisson, an old friend that he hadn’t talked to in years. His alibi, in other words.

            Things begin to click smoothly into place. This assignment may not be too difficult, after all.

            _Careful,_ Hux chides himself, rubbing tension out of his sore left shoulder. Though he’s never failed an assignment yet, this one seems promising to be a first.

\---

            Ben Organa-Solo is “A Troubled Figure.” 

            It’s how the media describes him, anyway. A man-child of 28 with a drug habit, violence and control issues, and a penchant for falling in with groups of friends that inevitably blame him whenever they get into trouble. Compared to his Ivy-league ballerina sister Rey, Ben is a nightmare child, and a black smear against his otherwise picture perfect family. 

            Much of the backlash against the Organa family in recent years have been due to the fact that somehow Ben’s been able to stay out of jail, presumably because of his mother’s influence.

            The gay card was a power play on their move, Hux is sure of it. Ben conveniently “coming out of the closet” just happened to coincide with his next court hearing date, thus garnering mass public sympathy for the boy, who must have “had it so hard growing up in a conservative family” and who “has anger issues because he’s struggling with his identity.”

            Hux finds all of it cock and bull shit, but he can’t deny that it was a shrewd effort on Leia’s part, to get the media to like their family again and allow more liberals to sympathize with poor Ben Solo, the new poster child for closeted gay men all over the country.

            Hux only wonders how they managed to render the “leaked” sex tape so realistically with Ben’s facial features, but in this day and age, he supposes technology makes everything that much easier.

\---

            Thanisson is missing an arm.

            Hux sticks out his left hand instead of his right to shake without missing a beat.

            “A car accident,” Thanisson offers. Hux shrugs without questioning it, taking a swig from his beer.

            Thanisson had, up until recent years, been a mercenary like him. He’d gone on radio silence for a bit before cropping back up in New York, announcing to all his friends that he’d retired. He’d been respectable enough while he worked that he’d had enough connections to phone in on. Not even his enemies bothered to mess with him to try and get revenge.

            “Never thought I’d see you back stateside again,” Thanisson comments, like he’s talking about the weather.

            “Not here by choice.”

            Thanisson hums thoughtfully. “Not sure if I believe that, Huxy. At least when I knew you, there wasn’t a soul that could make you do something you didn’t want to.”

            Hux sighs at the old nickname. He hates it. _Fair enough._

            “I’m here on a gig for Mr. S.”

            Thanisson snorts and shakes his head, taking another bite of his sandwich. The coffee shop they’re at is less expensive than the others and discreet, quietly buzzing with hipsters on dates and businessmen on dinner break from their offices.

            “Mr. S still around, yeah? He’s gotta be one hundred years old by now.”

            “He hides secrets under his wrinkles.”

            “What’s the old prick got you doing this time? Going after the President?”

            Hux glances around to make sure no one’s listening. To anyone, it’d sound like a harmless joke, too exaggerated to even be close to the truth. But in their line of work, it isn’t an exaggeration.

            “Remember Leia Organa?”

            “What do you mean ‘remember Leia’, she’s in the news every fuckin’ day, mate,” Thanisson says. Hux waits a moment for his words to sink in. It takes a few seconds, but then Thanisson’s eyes get huge and a bit of salami falls out of his mouth.

            “No way… tell old man ‘S’ to fuck off! She’s untouchable.”

            “Not her…her child.”

            Thanisson sets his sandwich down and dabs at the corners of his mouth with his napkin, then takes a sip from his root beer. Hux eats a piece of kale from his tiny salad.

            “Which one? The girl?”

            Hux shakes his head, a disgusted look crossing his features.

            Thanisson holds up his hand defensively. “I dunno. Always thought Mr. S was a creepy old bastard. Figured it was only a matter of time before he wanted a little bird to keep for himself.”

            Hux thinks of pretty little Rey and feels slightly sick despite himself. If Snoke had asked Hux to come after her he would have certainly said no. Hux has no qualms about killing people, but putting them in sexual slavery? Hux has his limits.  

            “Not her. The guy.” Hux cuts a piece of radish in half.

            “Kicking, or flat?” Thanissons asks, the code words for “dead or alive.”

            “Kicking. Perfectly kicking,” Hux mutters.

            Thanisson whistles, low and impressed, and maybe a little pitying. “Damn, Huxy. You got your work cut out for you.”

            Hux clenches his jaw at the grating nickname.

            “What can I say. Mr. S made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

            Thanisson chuckles. “He must have. Don't tell me that you’re crazy enough to have said yes, though. You’re not the type with a death wish.”

            Hux looks out the window as a man in a beanie stoops down to pet his cat, which is wearing a leash.

            “Things change, Thanisson. You know that. You think I’d ever visit New York for fun?”

            “Here I was, thinking that it could be like old times again, and you just popped by for a visit,” Thanisson monotones. “But tell me. What is he offering? A slice of his company?”

            “Mr. S is a high paying client. You, of all people, should know,” Hux says, “but for a high reward, there are always risks involved…especially in his assignments,” he glances meaningfully at the empty space where Thanisson’s left arm should be.

            Thanisson looks away, annoyed. “Whatever you say, _Brendol._ But I never took you for a man too concerned with his bank accounts.”

            “I’d like to retire early. With all my faculties intact.”

            “Don’t lie to me. We’re cut from the same cloth…” Thanisson appraises Hux with a watchful once-over. “You’re trying to capture America’s Bad Son. You hate high-profile jobs. You slip up, once, and your life is over, the media will OJ-Simpson your pale lily-white arse. Domestic, international, won’t be anywhere you can run to, and don’t think Mr. S will help you out. You’ll be dead in the water.”

            Thanisson squints. “No…this is personal, isn’t it?”

            Hux refuses to answer. Better to let Thanisson think whatever the hell he wants to think, and if it just happens to be true, well, Hux isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing. But Hux’s nonresponse is all Thanisson needs—he sits back with a self-satisfied smirk. 

            They sit in more silence, Hux poking at his greens and Thanisson slowly polishing off his sandwich. When they’re both almost done, Hux clears his throat.

            “I wanted to ask you something.”

            Thanisson sighs, looking up from the remains of his sandwich.

            “I think I know where this is going. I’m retired, Hux.”

            “Listen, Thanisson. You know I wouldn’t ask this of you if I had any other choice. Just be my alibi, will you?”

            Thanisson shakes his head. “Can’t do that, mate.”

            Hux narrows his eyes. “All those times I helped cover you, and you’re going to say no to me now?”

            “This is something else,” Thanisson says quietly. “You’ve fuckin’ lost it if you think I’m going to help you kidnap the son of the most powerful woman in the country.”

            Hux hisses at him to lower his voice, eyes wildly darting around the room, as if any one might have heard their conversation.

            “It’s treason, to say the least,” Thanisson murmurs.

            “Yeah, good thing I revoked my American citizenship then, isn’t it? And anyway, she isn’t the President anymore,” Hux growls.  

            Thanisson shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe not, but she hasn’t lost any support over the years. Gained more, if anything.”

            The bill for their meals come and Thanisson foots it without a blink. Guess the last gig he did must have been worth losing an arm, and then some, for all that money.

            “Best of luck, mate,” Thanisson says, standing and clapping a hand on Hux’s shoulder.

            Hux offers a wry smile.

            “I don’t believe in luck.”

\---

            During the court proceedings nearly two decades ago, Leia Organa had looked straight at Hux with something close to pity in her eyes as Hux watched his father, Brendol Hux Sr. lead away in an orange jumpsuit, to be locked away for a multitude of crimes.

            She’d vowed that Hux would be safer now, better off in the hands of the ( _broken)_ foster system, than continuing to live with his criminal father.

            That day as Hux had stepped out of the courtroom and into the bathroom, wiping away his tears, he’d met a young boy with dark hair and darker eyes, staring at him curiously over the bathroom sink.

            “Are you crying?”

            “No,” Hux had said, voice cracking on the word. _Pathetic._

“What’s wrong?”

            “Nothing,” Hux had snarled, storming out of the bathroom. But he hadn’t known where to go after that, and instead found a small corner under a stairwell in the massive courthouse building and cried, stifling his sobs with a firm hand over his mouth.

            An hour later and the dark haired boy had found him again, this time rudely crawling into the small space and squishing Hux against the wall. Hux had found it oddly comforting—he’d spent a good amount of his childhood hiding in small spaces, but always alone, never with someone else there.

            “Get out,” he’d hissed, fresh, frustrated tears springing to his eyes when the other boy ( _brat)_ had refused.

            “Why are you crying?”

            “Because my dad’s a piece of shit.”

            The dark haired boy had startled a little, maybe surprised that a boy as young as himself had said a bad word. Hux didn’t care—his dad swore all the time.

            The boy had leaned closer, pressing Hux even tighter against the wall, and against all logic Hux found himself leaning into the strange semi-hug.

            “Me too,” the boy had whispered, as if it were some great secret that he, too, had a shitty dad.

            “Yeah? Well, mine is going to jail.” Hux had sneered. _Beat that._

            The boy thought about that, blinking hair out of his eyes. His hair was stupid, Hux decided. Long hair on boys was stupid and _no son of mine is gonna have long hair_.

            “My dad did, too. Went to jail, I mean,” the boy had said quietly, and that had surprised Hux.

             “You’re lying,” Hux had hissed, because that’s all people ever did. Make fun of him, lie to him, call him “troubled” and “sad” with those large, pitying eyes, as if any of them ever gave enough of a shit to try and actually do something for him and _help_ him, instead of just feeling sorry for him.

            “Nope. He smuggled shit,” the boy had said quietly, flinching a little at his own swear but determined to make it sound confident, “but Momma says I shouldn’t talk about it to people who aren’t family.”  

            “Oh.” Hux had said. He didn’t know what smuggle meant, but it sounded bad.

            “It’ll be okay,” the boy had said.

            Hux wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt.

            Then, the boy had hugged him.

            Hux flinched, closing his eyes quickly, stiffening when he felt arms wrap around him loosely, instead of constricting him.

            “Rey always hugs me when I cry.”

            “Who the hell is Rey,” Hux had said, his words muffled by the boy’s shoulder, but the boy didn’t let go, even when his shirt got wet because Hux was too dumb to stop crying.

            “My stupid little sister. She’s cool sometimes though. People say she’s really cute.”

            “Oh.” Hux had said, relaxing a little. It felt weird, being hugged. But not bad. Nothing was hurting. It felt kind of warm. “I don't have any siblings.”

            “Lucky,” the boy had said.

            Leia had found them like that under the stairs, hours later.

            It was only almost a solid decade afterwards, after Hux had blown through at least 5 heavy paychecks on therapy sessions to try and “deal with things from ‘The Past’”, that he’d come to the realization that the dark haired boy had been none other than Ben Organa-Solo.

\---

            The foster system was determined to break Hux, so he did the only thing he could and threw himself into his work, determined to prove them all wrong. If there’s one thing Hux excels at, it’s research.

            So he does a lot of it.

            There are hundreds, thousands of articles on the internet about the Organa family, about the Skywalkers, about their dark and violent family history.

            Hux sees photos of Leia at campaigns and rallies and thinks of the large, dark eyes that had seemed so imposing in the courtroom. How they had looked down at him with pity, but also a small measure of understanding.

            It says online that Leia’s father had been a murderer, or so it was speculated. She had never confirmed it herself.

            Hux thinks of Ben and who he is now. The media paints him as the biggest and most dangerous douche in the world, soiling the good family name that Leia had worked so hard to maintain. He tries to match that with the mental snapshot in his mind, preserved from when he was a kid, of the dark haired boy, big for his age, squished underneath the stairs and hugging Hux like Hux was a prized stuffed toy.

            The images don’t match up.

            Some of the more radical claims include counts of murder, of people who had crossed Ben the wrong way and had mysteriously ended up dead. Of course, all the claims were settled before they could even be brought into court, and were therefore heresay, more rumors surrounding the mysterious eldest Organa-Solo child.

            Hux pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache building. He draws up a list of things he needs to accomplish for the next day before shutting his laptop and climbing into bed.

            That night he dreams of plush lips, dark eyes, and pale skin.

\---           

            Hux would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that he’d looked Ben Solo up once or twice, or more, throughout the years.

            It didn’t mean anything. He was curious, and it wasn’t difficult—Ben’s face was plastered on the gossip rags at least once a month. There were entire websites devoted to Ben Solo, Leia Organa’s hot son.

            And not just hot, but also talented, and smart like his mother, with enough of his father’s bad-boy appeal to make him the modern James Dean.

            Hux had been in Florida for a mission, early on in his career. Some rich mogul in Tampa had wanted another competitor out of the picture. In the bay, sunglasses on and slathered with sun tan lotion, Hux had spotted Ben Solo clambering onto a boat with some skinny girl.

            Ben had looked different then, skin radiant with health instead of peaky and grey with drug abuse.

            And Hux had almost, almost wanted to go over, see if Ben would remember his telltale red hair.

\---       

            There’s a lot of preparation that goes into killing someone, but the bulk of work comes after the deed is done. Body disposal, escaping the country, discreet wire transfers, and then of course, the _paperwork,_ to explain why there is suddenly half a million more dollars flying into his bank accounts.

            The government had given him some financial aid, but college doesn’t pay for itself. As soon as he’d saved enough money, he moved out of the states and to the UK.

            Hux studied criminology and cognitive science in college, learning about social behavior and human interaction, what drives people to commit crime, and of course, the forensics of a murder scene, how to spot clues and stains and piece together what could have happened. He was good at it, his mind working quickly and efficiently to fit pieces of the puzzle together.

            Turns out, the information had still been useful when Hux started working on the opposite side of the law. It’s good to know that neoprene gloves really don’t do anything to hide finger prints, considering the amount of times he’s had to dispose of a bloody trail.

            In the morning, Hux works out: jump rope for cardio, and then sets and pushups and other exercises until his muscles ache. Hand to hand combat has never been his forte, but he tries, in case emergencies ever come up (and they do…they always fuckin’ do.) He eats a light meal, showers, and then leaves for the nearest gun shop.

            The man behind the counter gives him a look, but otherwise doesn’t question the fake gun license that Hux flashes, or the $7000 in cash that he lays on the table to pay for their high caliber sniper rifle.

            It’s nearing nightfall by the time that Hux has adjusted the scopes and balance of the gun, practicing on the range that the store had in the back lot.

            Flat on his belly, he takes deep, measured breaths, the weight of the rifle pressing into his shoulder. Hux blinks, feeling sweat drip down his temple.

            The target sways slightly in the breeze.

            It smells like summer in the city.

            Hux curls his finger around the trigger and squeezes.

            Straight through the center.

            And for good measure, Hux goes into the shop and buys a handgun. He likes collecting them.

\---

            Hux doesn’t have much of a personal life anymore. Not like he ever did. Having friends, family, _lovers,_ invites trouble and collateral damage and heartbreak.

            He considers Phasma a friend. At least, someone who would maybe think twice about killing him. She also had the uncanny ability to see right through him, understand the fact that he was born with enough sparking hatred in him to power a small city, and accepted it readily.

            And Ben, too. He’d seen through Hux that day under the stairs, too.

\--- 

            Snoke messages him on the second week, his disposable phone going off with a dinky little _ping_.

            _What is your status –S_

            Hux tries not to roll his eyes and retort with something cruel.

            _Very well. Preparations almost complete. Status update T-3 days. –H_

            _Good. –S_

            Hux surveys the room. Everything is in place—explosives to set the room on fire and eliminate evidence, just in case shit hits the fan. Weaponry cleaned, packed, and loaded, ready to use. Money transfers arranged. The private jet had been tricky to figure out, but money makes the world go ‘round, and Hux managed to find a cheap contractor who would fly two people from the states to anywhere in Europe, no questions asked.

            Oh, and of course, the drugs. Hux doubted that zip ties and the good old dose of chloroform would be enough to keep Ben Solo knocked out, so he’d gone with something a little stronger. A small vial of brown liquid sits next to a needle plunger, carefully capped to prevent accidental pricking. 

            Now comes the easy part; finding Ben.

\---

            Ben had refused to come out from underneath the stairs, even as Leia had started getting impatient. She hadn’t seen Hux, didn’t know that he was hiding behind Ben.

            “Benjamin.”

            Ben jutted out his chin. “Leia.”

            Hux had gasped, quietly. Kids weren’t supposed to address adults by their first name.

            “Do not speak to me like that. Is this where you’ve been hiding the last few hours? Your father has been worried sick. You cannot disappear like that on us—“ Leia faltered, eyes catching on the red hair.

            “Who is that?" 

            “My friend,” Ben said defensively. Hux glared—they weren’t friends…though Hux hadn’t really had someone as a friend before, so he didn’t know what it was supposed to be like. Maybe this boy—Ben— _was_ a friend.

            “Oh…Brendol, is that you?” Her voice had changed instantly, into something much more gentle. “Come on out. We’ve been looking for you, too.”

            Hux had crawled out, because disobeying rules was bad, and even though Leia had taken his Pa away, he thought that maybe she was telling the truth, that wherever she was going to take him was going to be better.

            He’d been wrong, and she’d been a liar.

\---

             FRESH OUT OF REHAB AND BACK TO THE CLUB—IS THIS THE END FOR BEN?

            There are little niceties to be said about gossip rags, but if there’s one thing they’re good for, it’s speculation. And just sometimes, the speculation turns out to be right.

             Hux goes to the hipster clothes shop at the corner of the street, picks out a set of clothes for himself and tries them on.

             _Eh. Not bad,_ he thinks, pushing the big glasses up his nose a little further. People speculate enough about Ben’s dating life and preferences for Hux to cobble together an outfit that might appeal to Ben. Good thing he’s rumored to be into the skinny type.  

 

\---

            The club is pounding, gyrating bodies smashing and bouncing off each other like pin balls. Hux can barely hear himself _think_ over the racket.

            Pretty girls in sequined dresses and cocktails flit around, eyes lit up with drunken fervor. Guys and girls, and girls and girls, and guys and guys make out and grind on the dance floor, strobe lights flashing and disco ball swirling until Hux can barely tell up from down. And he’s not even drunk yet.

            Hux picks his way over to the bar, where two overworked and sweaty bartenders haphazardly try and make blue cocktails, dollar bills falling out of their apron pockets.

            The bartender hands him a shot of vodka and Hux drinks half of it, then pours the other half all over his shirt, dabbing some around his neck like cologne for good measure. It’s distasteful and _sticky_ , but it’ll get the job done, convince anyone within a three-foot radius that he is drunk.

             He weaves his way through the spiraling crowd, more than once fending off grabby hands that range a little too close for comfort.

            He settles into a corner and waits.

\---

            Ben Solo is not a hard man to find. When he enters the club the entire place gets impossibly louder, people shouting and standing up on tip toes to try and nab a picture of the infamous Ben Solo, accompanied by his entourage of extremely drunk gay boys and a few surly looking security members.

            Hux feels his mouth go dry.

            Ben is _big_.

            He’d been lanky even back then when neither of them had hit puberty yet but now he’s _huge_ , muscles bulging, towering at least half a head over everyone, long black hair falling into his eyes.

            Hux huddles against his corner and tries to make himself inconspicuous. He watches as Ben buy a round of drinks for his entourage, toss back a shot of vodka like water, and go in for round two. Watches the pale column of Ben’s neck as he downs another shot. Watches the curve of his lips, plump as Hux remembers, settle around the rim of his shot glass.

            The club quickly reverts back to its default state, the crowd dispersing and going back to their grind-humping on the dance floor.

            Even after a fifth round of drinks, Ben looks hardly affected though a telltale glaze settles over his dark eyes, or at least, what Hux can see of his eyes from this distance.

            A guy from Ben’s entourage, some flamboyant twink, leans over and whispers something in Ben’s ear. Hux’s fists clench.

            Ben nods and him and the guy head towards the dance floor.

            Hux peels himself off the wall. Time to make his move.

\---     

            Hux hates dancing.

            He flits away from the groping hands that are everywhere, wiping strangers’ sweat off himself, wiggling his way through the dancers to get himself closer to Ben.

            Ben is already dancing with someone, huge hands settled on the other person’s ass and Hux feels a flare of _something_ in the pit of his stomach, hot and calm. Not dissimilar to the feeling he gets right before he’s about to pull the trigger on someone.

            Hux licks his lips.

\---

            There’s a flicker of recognition in Ben’s eyes. 

            And that’s enough to get him to let go of the guy he’s dancing with and head towards Hux, the crowd parting easily before his intimidating stature.

            Hux pushes the fake glasses further up his nose.

            “HEY,” Ben shouts over the heart-pounding music, and it’s _him,_ he’s _here_ , he’s _real._ All the times Hux had imagined him, Ben still looked like a kid, a mop of black hair and pout firmly fixed in place. He still has both of those features but he’s mean now too, eyes dark like he’s seen some shit in his life.

            “HI,” Hux yells over the noise.

            “DO I KNOW YOU FROM SOMEWHERE?”

            “DON’T THINK SO. BUT YOU’RE BEN, RIGHT?” Hux plays up the accent, watching Ben’s pupils dilate.

            “WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” Ben yells back.

            “WHAT?” Hux surreptitiously glances around, checking for Ben’s entourage of security guards and friends. They all seem to be distracted, getting drinks or dancing. Good. No one can notice he’s gone until it’s too late. 

            “LEMME BUY YOU A DRINK,“ Ben says, steering them towards the bar in the corner. He orders four shots for each of them and clinks his first glass with Hux, winking. Hux finishes his first shot, cringing at the burn, before picking up the second, matching Ben shot for shot, if only because of the light of challenge in Ben’s smirk.

            “LET’S GET OUT OF HERE,” Hux interrupts before Ben can order another round, jerking his thumb towards the exit and good god, it actually _works_ , and Ben nods and settles a hand in the middle of his back as Hux weaves them out towards the doors, heart hammering in his chest.

             The cool breeze outside is heaven compared to inside the club, and also clearing up Hux’s booze-addled brain. For all his Irish heritage, it’s never actually helped his alcohol tolerance.  

            Hux pats his pockets down for a cigarette, furtively checking to make sure the chloroform and syringe of sedative is still in his pocket.

            He lights up, hollowing out his cheeks to suck at the cigarette, feeling Ben’s eyes stare at the pucker of his lips. Maybe the gay rumors aren’t rumors after all.

            “Smoke?” Hux offers. Ben takes one, fingers brushing against Hux’s when he reaches for the lighter. He doesn’t move any further even after he returns the lighter. Ben sways a little as he focuses on lighting the smoke, betraying for a second how drunk he is.

            Inhale, exhale. Tendrils of smoke leak out of Ben’s mouth and into the inky night. The brick wall Hux leans against feels nice and cool—he can feel Ben’s body heat, by sheer proximity of how close he’s standing.

            “Feels like I’ve seen you before,” Ben says, scrutinizing Hux’s face.

            Hux shrugs. “Just moved here. I’m a grad student at NYU.

            “You don’t sound like you’re from around.”

            “England, actually. People tell me I kind of look like Prince Harry.”

            Ben laughs. “Yeah, if your nose was 3 times bigger and you were 30 pounds heavier.”

            Hux reminds himself it’s a good thing Ben doesn’t remember him. He can’t help the pang of disappointment.

            “Yeah? Not a lot of English people around here?”

            “None like you.”

            Hux flushes.

            “Oh.”

            “Oh?”

            “What do you study?”

            “Criminology and Psychology.”

            Ben inhales from his cigarette.

            “Hm. I was hoping you wouldn’t be one of _those_ guys.”

            “What guys?”

            “The guys that are super hot but then try to psychoanalyze me while I’m fucking them.”

            Hux laughs, hoping it doesn't sound fake. “Does that happen often?”

            “Here and there.” 

            Hux nods, sticking a hand in his pocket. Still there. The needle and chloroform are still there. Not now though, still too many people around.

            Ben leans forward then, a predatory look in his eyes and Hux looks away. 

            “Sorry, I’m…I’m a little nervous,” Hux says, eyes darting around. They’re in an alley but it’s well lit, too many cars driving by, no easy escape route. And Ben is huge, much bigger in person than Hux thought he’d be. There’s no way he’d be able to drag Ben’s body into a taxi without it being highly suspicious. He has to get them away from here for the plan to work.

            “Why are you nervous?”

            Ben smirks, stepping even closer into Hux’s space, a shark smelling blood. Suddenly, and for the first time in a long time, Hux feels very small.

            “Your reputation precedes you,” Hux says.

            “Does it? What do you think you know about me?”

            Hux pushes up his glasses. He’s got one shot at this. And he knows exactly what to say to get a response.

            “You’re a big guy that talks a big game. Rich, spoiled, with a socio-politically conservative mother, and an ex-convict father. They probably fought a lot while you were growing up, didn’t they?” Hux watches Ben’s face contort in surprise first, then anger. _It’s working._  

            “You’ve spent a lot of time hiding under their protective shell, but wanting to break away and follow a different path. You do drugs, act out, hurt people. But you’re never in jail too long thanks to your mother.” Hux inhales from his cigarette, purposefully blowing smoke into Ben’s face. “Your sister is America’s sweetheart, and you know you’d never be able to be as good as her, so you make yourself as bad as possible, to, what? Stay relevant? You want the fame, the glory, the power? And Is the gay thing even real, or just another front by your mother to try and get the public to like you?”

            The cigarette is completely pulverized between Ben’s huge fingers, crushed beyond utility, and for a very real second Hux thinks that Ben is going to deck him, steels himself for a punch when Ben starts to stalk in.

            But instead Ben blows smoke right back into his face, teeth bared in a snarl, and growls out “why don’t you fucking find out?”

            The next second they’re attacking each others’ lips, Ben biting hard enough on Hux’s bottom lip to draw blood. Hux groans into the kiss, every single teenage fantasy and years of longing springing to the forefront like a raging inferno, swallowing him up.

            Ben’s lips taste like shitty vodka, his tongue heavy and hot as he licks into Hux’s mouth.

            Hux tangles a fist in Ben’s thick hair and yanks, hard. Ben wrestles his way out of it and bodily pushes Hux against the wall, slamming him hard enough that both of them hear the sharp _thud_ of the back of Hux’s head colliding with brick.

            “Who the fuck do you think you _are_ , some English prick coming to New York, thinking you know everything about me from what you’ve read in some fucking magazines. You don’t know _anything_ about me,” Ben hisses, one big hand wrapped around Hux’s throat, squeezing slowly.

            Hux feels adrenaline surge through his system, sharpening his vision, breaths whooshing in and out of his constricted windpipe. Ben’s powerful but weak too, stance too narrow, all brawn and no skill to enforce it. Easy to manipulate.

            Hux locks eyes with Ben’s dark, furious gaze and very purposefully licks his lips, watching Ben’s eyes trace the motion of his tongue.

            Ben’s pupils are blown wide and dark and then they’re kissing again, and it’s too easy to slip a hand into the back pocket of Ben’s jeans and squeeze a handful of his firm ass.

            “Fuck,” Ben groans against Hux’s lips.

            “Sure,” Hux breathes, “my place?”  

            Ben hails a taxi.

\---

            Hux fumbles with the keys when they get to his door, like an idiot. And he’s drunk, but not drunk enough for his hands to shake nearly as hard as they are.  

            Ben sets a heavy, warm hand on his shoulder.

            “What’s wrong?”

            “Nothing,” Hux snaps. He’s not nervous. He isn’t.

            “The stories you’ve heard about me…they’re all true,” Ben smirks.

            Hux finally gets the key in the lock and the door swings open.

            “Careful, _Ben._ There are parts of you that aren’t as large as your ego.”

            Ben’s eyes darken and he pushes Hux into the small room, flicking on the lights.

            Both of them wince when the harsh overheads come on, Hux quickly reaching over and shutting them off again. In the darkness of the room, Ben blends into the shadows, illuminated only by the moonlight streaming in through the windows.

            “You live in a closet,” Ben says.

            “Well, not all of us have rich mommies that can pay for all our things.”

            “You’re an asshole,” Ben snarls and then he’s shoving Hux towards the mattress on the floor and pushing him flat on his back, crawling over him and shoving his tongue down Hux’s throat.

            This was definitely not part of the plan.

            Hux groans despite himself when Ben runs a hot hand under his shirt and up to pinch at a nipple, and then panics slightly when his other hand wanders a little too close to the pocket where the vial is.

            “Is this what you want? Getting fucked by me? Has it been your dream, since all the gossip mags said I was gay?”

            “My God, do you ever shut up?” Hux grumbles, “don’t flatter yourself.” Though it’s 100% true. Every single word.

            “Someone needs to take the stick out of your ass,” Ben sneers.

            “What, are you going to volunteer to get it out?” Hux shoots back.

            “Yeah, I’ll replace it with something bigger.”

            “Doubt it.”

            For a second Hux’s accent slips. It doesn’t happen often anymore; he’s been living in England long enough that the dialect comes like second nature, but exactly that. It’ll always be second to his native American nasal flatness.

            “Are you mocking me?” Ben says, and thank god that’s what he interpreted of Hux’s screw up.

            “Get off me.”

            “What?”

            “I said get off me.”

            Ben doesn’t budge.

            “Get the hell off me, you oaf, I need to use the restroom.”

            Ben finally moves away, with what can only be a plaintiff whine.

            “God you’re like a damn dog. No wonder no one’s ever dated you for more than a week, so goddamn needy” Hux snipes, and watches as Ben’s face falls and genuine hurt crosses his features before it morphs back into the familiar anger.

            “Good thing you’re hot. Or I woulda beaten the shit out of you,” Ben says primly. Hux slams the bathroom door behind him.

            In the bathroom mirror over the sink, he checks his reflection. Flushed red, either from the alcohol or being helplessly turned on, he’s not sure. His lip is still bleeding sluggishly from where Ben bit him, like an honest to god _dog_.

            Somehow though, Hux always assumed Ben would be a biter.

            He pats his pocket to check the capped needle is still there. If he leaves his pants close enough to the bed, after Ben falls asleep maybe he’ll be able to knock him out, quick and easy. It’s risky—the vial could fall out, or Ben could accidentally break it trying to get Hux’s pants off, and wouldn’t that be perfect.

            Or he could walk out naked. With anyone else, Hux would think it too forward, but it’s Ben, and they’ve already established they’re going to do…whatever they’re about to do. He takes a breath.

            It’s been a while since he’s done this. Sex, that is. And he’s deeply, embarrassingly, horrendously out of practice. Between killing people for a living and meticulously avoiding the authorities, he’s hardly got time for a good night’s rest, much less trying to shag someone. He checks his reflection again, combing his hair into something more acceptable and flattening out his shirt.

            This is ridiculous. He could go out there right now, stab the needle into Ben’s thigh somewhere and he’d be out like a light switch. A done deal, then a flight to Snoke, and a half a million dollar paycheck.

            Hux wouldn’t have to work for _months_.

            And yet.

            He’s loathe to admit that he really does _want_ this. Ben, real and alive and hot to the touch, sitting right outside on the mattress waiting. Waiting for _Hux._

            He takes another deep breath and takes off his pants, and his shirt for good measure, folding them neatly into two squares, with the vial in the pocket of his jeans tucked away.

            He pees and splashes water on his face. His face is still warm from the vodka, but it’s mostly faded into the background, a dull headache setting in. Hangovers are always a bitch and a half.

            Hux shuts the bathroom light and walks out, to the sight of Ben, completely naked, already stroking himself to hardness.

            “What the fuck,” Hux croaks.

            “Aren’t you brits supposed to say some shit like ‘sweet mary mother of god’,” Ben huffs, hand moving languidly up and down his cock, not self conscious in the slightest.

            Hux swallows and nearly drops his pile of clothes, barely making it over to the side of the mattress and setting them down.

             “Have you no decency,” Hux mutters, shifting his clothes within reaching distance and then moving onto the mattress tentatively. It’s the first time in a long time he’s thrown away what he has to do for what he _wants_ to do, and the feeling is strange.

            “I know you’re attracted to me.”

            “Unfortunately,” Hux agrees.  

            Their kiss this time is different, still hard and unforgiving but less urgent, and Hux realizes after a while that Ben is _toying_ with him, licking into his mouth and along his teeth, idly sucking on Hux’s tongue.

            Hux wraps his hand around Ben’s dick without preamble. 

            Ben groans into his mouth, hips stuttering up into Hux’s fist. Hux hasn’t gotten his hand around many dicks in his life before but he’s pretty sure that Ben’s is the thickest, and by far the heaviest.

            “Fuck,” Ben breathes, slipping his hand down Hux’s boxers and Hux makes an embarrassing sound somewhere between a whine and a moan.

            “Get these off.”

            There’s an awkward scuffle and Hux’s boxers get thrown somewhere near the kitchen but then Ben’s hands are everywhere at once, and it’s overwhelming because Hux hasn’t been touched in so long.

            Ben stills when he feels Hux squirming.

            “Are you ticklish?”

            “No.” Hux says, firmly.

            Ben squints at him in the dark.

            “You know, we really don’t have to do anything. I’m not going to force you to.”

            “I want to,” Hux snarls. Damn Ben for making him weak, for making him cave. This could have been over before it even started, the second Ben walked into the room it was a done deal. Needle in the thigh, bag and cover him, get him on the plane to Snoke, and _cha-ching,_ let the bills roll in. And instead Hux is naked in his arms and Ben is _coddling_ him. As if he’s someone that needs to be coddled.

            Ben kisses him in lieu of response, hands wandering down to Hux’s ass and squeezing, one broad finger sliding down his crack and nudging at his hole.

            And then Ben’s cell phone goes off, and suddenly everything is snapping back into perspective. Hux is wasting time.

            “Ignore it,” Ben says, digging his fingers into Hux’s hips when Hux tries to clamber off.

            “It’s your phone.”

            “I know, I don’t care,” Ben says, full lower lip in a ridiculous pout.

            “I’ll get it for you—“

            “No, don’t!” Ben says, gripping harder onto Hux’s hips, and placing extremely distracting kisses on Hux’s collarbones.

            The ringing starts up again.

            “I’ll turn the damn thing off for you,” Hux mutters. Ben sighs in annoyance and reaches for his discarded jeans, rifling around and Hux suddenly realizes that it could be his handler calling in and Ben might leave before—

            “My sister,” Ben grumbles and silences the phone, sticking it back into the pocket and tossing his jeans to the floor. Hux barely holds back a breath of relief. “I should probably text her.”

            Ben pulls the phone back out and sends a text, eyebrows furrowed in consternation.

            “Something the matter?”

            “Yes…I mean no.”

            Hux’s palms start to sweat.

            “What is it?”

            “Nothing. Wanted to know when I’m coming home for the long weekend.”

            Ben tosses the phone back into his pile of clothes.

             “What’s happening over the weekend?”

            Something strange bubbles and bursts in Hux’s chest when he realizes that Ben won’t ever get to be at whatever event is happening, because he’ll likely be dead at best, or worse when Snoke’s got his hands on him. The prospect of knocking him out and delivering him to Snoke feels more daunting as the seconds tick.

            “Let’s talk about this when my penis isn’t touching yours.”

            “Holy shit, that’s the most unattractive thing someone’s ever said to me,” Hux says, and it’s not even a lie.

            “Lube?”

            “Who do you think I am?”

            “Irresponsible,” Ben snipes, and Hux seethes because fucking Ben Solo was the last thing he thought he would be doing while he was on this assignment.

            From out of his wallet, Ben produces two condoms and a small packet of lube. Hux figures he should be surprised, but isn’t, not when Ben slicks up two of his fingers and pushes them into Hux.

            Hux keens because it’s been longer than he thought since the last time anyone did this to him, but Ben is making encouraging little noises in between shallow kisses, easing up on the pressure just enough for it to feel bearable, and then very, very good.

            “Told you the rumors are true,” Ben says smugly when Hux makes a particularly embarrassing whimper, and Hux doesn’t even have the energy to complain, not when Ben pushes another huge finger in.

            “What rumors.”

            “That I’m good.”

            Ben reaches with his other hand to pull at Hux’s hair enough to expose his neck.

            “If you leave marks I swear I’ll—“

            “You’ll what?” Ben growls, but moves lower to gnaw at Hux’s collar bones, low enough to hide under dress shirts.

            Hux flinches when Ben pumps his fingers harder, relentless like the rest of him, moving away from Hux’s neck and back to kissing him, determined to lick his way to Hux’s tonsils.

            “You’re so tight,” Ben groans. 

            Hux breaks away from the kiss and scowls down at him but then Ben presses his fingers against _that_ spot and Hux very nearly goes boneless.

            “Fuck,” Hux says when Ben rips the condom foil with his teeth and rolls it onto his dick, pumping it once for good measure.

            “Relax, I’ll go slow,” Ben smirks. Hux doesn’t understand how one person can be so maddeningly, infuriatingly asshole-ish and attractive at the same time. He squirts the rest of the lube onto his dick and then lines it up against Hux’s entrance.

            It’s too much and too intense, the stretch of it pushing all the breath out of Hux’s lungs until he’s panting for air, hair damp with sweat falling into his eyes. Ben stops when he bottoms out, waiting as Hux struggles to snatch in breaths, arms trembling with effort from holding himself up. Ben strokes a hand down Hux’s back, grinning when he shudders under the touch. 

            “Don’t tell me I’m your first.”

            “You’re not,” Hux grits out, although it certainly feels like he is.

            Ben starts to move, slow at first with little thrusts and then more, seemingly careless about anything except his own pleasure, but watching Hux’s expression the entire time.

            “Fuck,” Hux cries when Ben wraps a hand around his dick and pumps in counter to his thrusts. Ben is a fucking vision, ab muscles flexing when he moves, barrel chest heaving with panted breaths. The entire world narrows down to sensation, to the feeling of Ben moving against him, _in_ him.

            Ben reaches his other hand to rub at Hux’s nipple and it’s enough; stars explode in Hux’s vision, whiting everything out, Ben groaning as he chases Hux’s orgasm with his own.

            In the aftershocks, Hux vaguely becomes aware of Ben shifting underneath him, rearranging Hux’s limbs into something less awkward before gingerly pulling out and moving away from the mattress, peeling off the condom. 

            “Don’t you dare throw that on the floor,” Hux manages to mutter. Ben flicks him off as he walks to the bathroom.

            Hux yawns into the mattress, temporarily ignoring the stickiness and drying come leaking onto his thighs. He hasn’t felt this sated in months, didn’t know that he’d needed this until now. And resolutely doesn’t want to think about what’ll happen next, whether or not he’ll have to wrestle Ben to the floor as he tries to escape, or whether Ben will go without struggle, or what.

            Hux burrows further into the comforter and tries not to think about it, listening peripherally to the toilet flush, the sink go, the light switch click when Ben walks back out of the bathroom.  

            Then Ben’s unmistakably large presence, climbing back onto the mattress behind him and settling a warm hand in between his shoulder blades.

            “Sentimental?” Hux sneers.

            He wouldn’t be surprised if Ben turned out to be the cuddly type.

            Hux turns around to face him.

            Ben has the needle in his hand. _The needle that was in my pocket._

            Instinctively Hux kicks out but Ben catches his foot with a hand and brings the needle down swiftly, depressing the plunger as it hits Hux’s thigh. Hux watches in horror as the fluid drains into him in slow motion. He bats Ben's hand away and yanks the sharp out quickly but it’s too late, the damage is done. His vision is already shadowing at the corners.

            “Sorry,” Ben says, and it’s the last thing Hux hears before the world goes black.

\---

            There are snippets of sound. A plane engine thrumming.

            Feet shuffling.

            Darkness.

            Hux wakes with a massive headache to a water bottle in front of his face and swallows automatically at the relief of cool water down his parched throat.

            Then darkness again.

\---

            The next time he wakes the room is dark, the carpet plush underneath Hux’s cheek.

            Ben stands before him.

            Hux blinks blearily, staring up at Ben, who wields a blade in one hand, a stormy expression clouding his features.

            “Whatss…” Hux tries to talk again, voice cracking on the word, tongue heavy and immobile in his cottony mouth.

            “Don’t talk. I had to do this. Snoke…he told me. That I can start over. That he’ll train me, help me. Make me powerful, get me away from my family. I…" 

            Ben chews over his words. Hux blinks, trying to piece together what the hell is going on. How does Ben know Snoke?

            “He told me to bring you to him. I don’t know why, he said I wouldn’t understand, and.” Ben licks his lips. “That you work for someone else, and he doesn’t want to worry about your loyalties. About you coming back to kill him.”

            It feels like someone’s stuffed his brain with cement. Hux tries to parse through Ben’s disjointed sentences, wondering if this is all some horrible nightmare he’ll wake up from.

            “You…you work for Snoke?” Hux manages to stutter.

            “Yes. And he told me to bring you to him, alive.”

            Hux tries to move away when Ben pulls out the little vial of chloroform and dumps some into a cloth.

            “I’m sorry,” he says, quietly.

            Hux holds his breath for as long as he can. It’s poetic justice, Hux supposes, to be at the mercy of the boy who saved him all those years ago.

            Hux inhales.

            The world narrows, then darkens, then fades.

\--- 

            Kylo Ren sits in the co-pilot seat, eyes on the horizon, refusing the urge to turn the plane around.

            The only direction now is forward, to Snoke.

\---

End.  

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued?  
> Thank you so much for reading! This is my first big bang, and also my first time pinch-hitting, and, not coincidentally, also the fastest I've ever written 10k words. Hope you enjoyed!


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